


Killing Monsters

by AndAllMannerofThings



Series: Fallen London [1]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 11:56:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12253923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndAllMannerofThings/pseuds/AndAllMannerofThings
Summary: It doesn't take an Implacable Detective to realise that something is wrong with the Bishop of St. Fiacre's





	Killing Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr

It doesn’t take an Implacable Detective to realise that something is wrong with the Bishop of St. Fiacre’s.

He always stands as far away as possible from Menace Eradicators whenever they are present at Church functions. A trace of an accent decidedly non-English in nature slips into his voice after a few glasses of Greyfields. He only barely picks at his food (how many days has he been fasting? Twelve? Fifteen? Thirty!?). He deflects any questions about his past with anecdotes as amusing as they are irrelevant. He pauses far too long when a vicar asks about his cousins. Eventually, as time goes on, these little eccentricities either vanish entirely, or grow so rare that it would be improper to even mention them.

The general consensus amongst the clergy is that the Bishop of St. Fiacre’s is a man best left to his own devices. He’s a little awkward, a little stuck up, maybe even a bit of an annoyance if you catch him in a talkative mood. All in all, though, he’s a good addition to the Church.

The Bishop of Southwark knows better, of course. He did not spend countless hours poring over esoteric bestiaries and ancient texts from all across the Neath to be fooled by a face-stealer.

 _“It’s disgusting,”_ he writes in his journal, _“that this foul, unholy abomination has the_ audacity _to sit in a house of God!”_

He cannot go to anyone without proof, though. The Church elders all think that he’s a washed up war veteran trying to seize as much glory as he can. A substantial number of the newer additions think that he’s just plain crazy, that he should go to the Royal Bethlehem for a season or two or eight and fade into obscurity.

Damn sinners, all of them.

But they have his hands tied. He simply doesn’t have the support to kick down the door to St. Fiacre’s and shoot the Snuffer in his stolen face.

He needs proof.

So he tucks a revolver into his boot, straps a knife to his side, hides a rifle in a bundle of spider silk, and he follows the Bishop of St. Fiacre’s on his daily walks throughout London.

What he sees surprises him.

He doesn’t see a monster loping around the city in a stupor, he sees a follower of God trying to make life a little easier for the downtrodden. He sees a fistful of echoes get pressed into the hand of a crippled docker. He sees minutes wasted helping a Clay Man pick up the shattered remains of a carriage. He sees a group of Urchins receive a bag of coal for their aging oven. He sees a busy bishop help an elderly lady cross the street.

How sickeningly cliche.

The hours turn into days and the Bishop of Southwark stops putting his finger on the trigger every time the Snuffer glances in his direction.

The days turn into weeks and Bishop of Southwark leaves his rifle in its case.

The weeks turn into months and the Bishop of Southwark keeps his revolver in his desk drawer, where it belongs.

False-Summer turns into winter, and the Bishop of Southwark shakes his head in disbelief. Of all the abominations he could have found, he happened upon the only one in the Neath with a conscience.

He decides that the Snuffer can live, for now. His efforts are better spent elsewhere at present.

One night, as the not-snow falls hard and fast, they pass in a corridor.

“Southwark,” the Snuffer grumbles, “you could have helped me earlier, that thing was damned heavy.”

He laughs in response, and continues on his way.

Five minutes later, he realises that the Snuffer wasn’t complaining about the barrel of wine the vicar had insisted on bringing up from the cellar, he was talking about the overturned costermonger’s cart that he had helped flip back onto its wheels that morning.

A few hours later, he finds the Snuffer on a balcony overlooking the zee. He brings his knife this time.

“You won’t have to butcher me,” the Snuffer says to the black water. “My kind can only die once.”

His knuckles tighten around the hilt. “I know, monster, I’ve studied your race.”

“Oh?” He turns away from the balcony, finally. “Was that before or after you left Dublin?”

He’s upon the beast in an instant. His left hand is wrapped around the Snuffer’s collar, his knife is against his dark throat.

“How  _dare_  you.” His voice shakes with rage.

The Snuffer blinks once, slowly, as though this were an everyday occurrence. “I suppose I am not the only one with secrets that should be kept, am I?”

“You have no right to speak of  _him_.”

He presses the knife against the Snuffer’s skin, and a thin trickle of blood slides down. It would be easy. A flick of the wrist and he would be no more.

“Why?” He asks the Snuffer through gritted teeth, “Why be a bishop, why join the Church?”

The Snuffer arches a brow and frowns. “You believe yourself to be the only one down here that desires absolution? I know I am a monster. I  _hate_  it.”

He shoves the Snuffer forward. The only thing keeping the monster from flipping over the balcony is his unbreakable grip on the collar.

The Snuffer is not worried, not at all. “I’ll admit you have me at a disadvantage. Even if this were a fair fight, I think the odds would still be in your favor.”

This is wrong. Monsters are supposed to be violent, bestial. The Snuffer is calm, ready to meet his fate.

“Why aren’t you fighting me?”

The Snuffer shrugs as much as he can. “What would be the point? I fight you, and you tell everyone my secret. I kill you, and every Constable and bounty hunter in London is after me. If I die, you become a hero for slaying the treacherous Snuffer.”

He presses the knife even harder against his throat. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“I have none.”

It should be the end, then. He should cut the creature’s throat and throw it’s body at the feet of the other clergy. He should unmask it and shove the stolen face into the hands of waiting Menace Eradicators. He should do  _this_ , he should do  _that_.

But when he looks at the Snuffer, he doesn’t actually see a Snuffer.

Instead, he sees a tired, resigned man waiting for him to make his choice.

Monsters aren’t resigned. Monsters aren’t tired. Monsters don’t hate themselves. Monsters don’t want to be something better.

A minute passes in silence. The not-snow coating every surface in the city has muffled even the foot traffic below.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the Bishop of Southwark throws the Bishop of St. Fiacre’s to the balcony floor.

“Why?” the Bishop of St. Fiacre’s asks as he climbs to his feet.

“If you truly desire absolution I have no need to kill you.”

He sheathes his knife and wipes his now bloody hand on the snowy railing.

The Bishop of St. Fiacre’s opens his mouth to speak. “I-”

He holds a hand up. “A step, Snuffer. One single step out of line, and I will kill you.”

The Bishop of St. Fiacre’s nods. “I figured as much.”

“Then we are done.”

He walks to the door, and only stops when he hears him speak.

“You are a curious man, Bishop of Southwark.”

He doesn’t turn around. “As are you, Bishop of St. Fiacre’s.”

With that said, the Bishop of Southwark disappears back into the warmth of the church.

He drinks a lot of wine that night, and his mind fills with visions of curly hair, fiery eyes, tender words, soft arms.


End file.
